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Waiting Is The Hardest Part
Tempest Corona - ---- ::Of substantial size and dominance within the freehold of Crown's Refuge are the expansive gardens known as the Tempest Corona. Encircled around the base of the towering Tempest Spire, Tempest Corona exists is three circular walkways - one around the base of Tempest Spire, one around the edge of the corona, and one in the middle - that interlock at regular intervals amidst gardens of lush vegetation, delicate statues and fountains, and proud trees and ferns. ::Awash in an ocean of jade and viridian hues, the footpaths that weave around the drape of nature's finest have apparently been created from a smooth obsidian rock that glistens a shade of dark purple when wet. This black stone serves to contrast with the otherwise pristine white of the tower that looms above, both of which equally complementing the varied greens of the gardens that encompass the whole area. ::The hiss and burble of fresh water from artificial streams, channels, and fountains alike provide a perpetually peaceful backdrop to the more natural ambiance of whispering leaves and rustling bushes. Patrolmen and Guards attached to the Blood Guard of Crown's Refuge stand at key points around the gardens - Human and Syladris alike - in half-plate of a polished dark-scarlet hue; an elegant tower-shield in one hand, an iron short sword in the other. ::Centered at the heart of Crown's Refuge, the Tempest Corona links to all four of the artery pathways that run through the freehold to the north, east, south, and west. The archway that leads into Tempest Spire itself faces south towards Fastheld, flanked by two Blood Guards at all times. Regardless of the presence of the Crown's Refuge defense guard, Tempest Corona harbors a sense of peace matched only by that of the Snowfall Basin in the northwest. ---- Just before the Spire waves a flag that has only recently shown up in Crown's Refuge - that of the Torchbeareres. The black pennon has a silver torch burnished with brass with rays of light and a starburst emanating from it. However, the pennon is in no way as impressive as the fifteen men standing in chainmail below it. A row of spearmen flanked by a row of pikemen, all with swords, stand with the butt of their polearms resting on the ground. Behind them are archers, their bows still unstrung. A look of nervous anticipation is in the eyes of all of them. Off to the side stand three figures. Varal Mikin, in his leather, resting his obsidian longsword on his shoulder. A ghostly, glowing wolf, lies curled around the Mikin's feet. Griedan Stonehammer, glowing in his silver banded-mail and wielding an enormous argentite warmace, waits nearby. Taran makes his way toward that pennant, not particularly looking pleased, but few would under the circumstances. Not limping today - but not moving too quickly, either. Griedan is nervous, that much is evident, and it looks like he's not slept much either, but the man is there, waiting for whatever may come. He turns to watch Taran as he approaches and raises a hand in greeting. "See Yeh're movin' 'bout be'er, Taran. I'm glad. Will yeh b' up in th' spire t'day?" The head of the wolf at Varal's feet raises for a moment, looking towards Taran for but a moment before deciding he isn't worth the effort and lowering it back down to the ground. The Mikin isn't oblivious enough to miss the gesture, and offers Taran a polite nod. "Archon." Off to the side stand three figures. Varal Mikin, in his leather, resting his obsidian longsword on his shoulder. A ghostly, glowing wolf, lies curled around the Mikin's feet. Griedan Stonehammer, glowing in his silver banded-mail and wielding an enormous argentite warmace, waits nearby. A limping Taran Songbird, the Archon of Crown's Refuge, approaches the Sunkissed trio. Taran nods back. "Varal," he says. "I understand Lucius has sorted out the Torchbearer's role with Torus. But I would like to speak with you, about what you specifically are willing to undertake." Off to the side stand three figures. Varal Mikin, in his leather, resting his obsidian longsword on his shoulder. A ghostly, glowing wolf, lies curled around the Mikin's feet. Griedan Stonehammer, glowing in his silver banded-mail and wielding an enormous argentite warmace, waits nearby. A limping Taran Songbird, the Archon of Crown's Refuge, approaches the Sunkissed trio. Varal inclines his head again. "And what would that be, Archon? I was told we were to defend the Spire, and so we are arrayed." Taran smiles. "You, Varal. A hunter of Shadow. Did you hear Blackfox's report?" Varal shakes his head. "No, Archon, I have not heard Blackfox's report." He rolls his shoulders, and his sword bounces at the motion. "But, what we are willing to undertake? We will do what is necessary to defend the Refuge so long as the it is not a lost cause. If it stands to be advantageous to attack, so we shall attack. But, in general, we are at your service so long as you do not go out of your way to throw our lives away." "Nah, jus' mine fer bein' a thorn in 'is side, aye." Griedan quips, grinning at Taran. Dark humor, that, but what does one expect on the cusp of battle? Lucius Nepos exits from the Spire interior, arrayed in his full battle panopoly and with a hard expression set on his face. Following him out is a hard looking archer lady - one might recognize her as Farrel Lomasa's retainer. "Alright lads, here's the plan. When they get close enough to arrow range, you archers loose on them. Spear range, chuck all three of your spears. Pikemen keep your weapons up in the air until either these beasts get close or the spear chuckers run out." His voice is gruff, and he ignores Taran's presence. "When they engage us, the first line, that's us spear chuckers, we fight with sword and shield. Behind us the pikemen present a row of their weapons in front of ours. That's two weapons per every man in front. Archers keep loosing. Irregulars, you do what you do." Then his expression grows darker. "Keep around the standard, men, until the retreat horn is blown, or the sallying horn is blown." "We have done all we may to preserve your lives," Taran replies. "But - again, right now I am speaking just of you, not the Torchbearers. Blackfox shot at Eliare last night - and she hit him. I thought you might want to know what she saw, as I think you have the best chance of anyone other than Tshepsi to deal with him. He will be very hard to kill for anyone else." He slants a look at Griedan. "If you were a thorn in my side, Griedan, trust that I would in no way tolerate you marrying into my family. That you like to learn things the hard way is simply something I have no room to talk about." He returns his attention to Varal. "If it comes to it, will you fight Eliare, or retreat with your men?" Nihanin's slow path is taken across the gardens, bare hand rustling plant and foilage. He seems to be taking a thoughtful stroll about the edges. Griedan sighs, shakes his head and mutters something darkly to himself. He doesn’t interrupt any further between Taran and Varal, instead choosing to keep his peace on the matter. Varal smirks at Taran. "Well, to be honest, Archon, you have done a little more than necessary to protect our lives. We came to fight, not serve as the rear guard. I understand that you are trying not to insult us, which is why I won't be insulted by your question." He looks back at his men. "Well, boys, did we come to fight, or will we run?" As their Captain explains and their Count asks, the Torchbearers are not quiet. Pikemen raise pikes and shields, spearmen raise spear and shields and archers raise their daggers and bows. They loudly clank these two together and stomp their feet, making a racket. In one, uniform moment they all shout out, rather loudly. Lucius is amongst them. He beats his iron spear against the pulsing, drake shaped seraphite shield vigorously and grins. Griedan doesn't rise to a cry, but nods curtly to Varal. "I'll fight, Meh Lord. I 'ave t' maneh frien's 'ere." He looks pointedly to Taran now. "An' fam'leh. I canna 'bandon ana o' them while I am able t' fight fer 'em." Nihanin pauses at the martial display of ball-slinging mashochism, lifting a hand and waving a greeting to the armored and armed unit. Taran shakes his head. "Keeping you all here was Torus' idea. He got a little tired of the declarations of soldierly superiority, and has put you all here to prove it. Archon or no, I can no more argue with him than I can with Lucius. I simply do not have the military background required. And I also lack the *time*." He indicates Varal's wolf. "Blackfox shot an unarmored Eliare. From hiding. With surprise on her side. With an *arbalest*. So you understand me when I tell you that Eliare nearly *dodged* that shot. But when it struck him...he turned to blood. Like we saw in the temple." He meets Varal's eyes. "You understand. This is not something *most* of us can fight. You and perhaps Kallyn have the only powers that can deal with this." Rather less grand than the impressive parade of soldiers arrayed here is the sleep-ruffled, wide-eyed, hasty little form of Meian as she pelts in from the south at a full run. "I'm here! I'm h-here! I'm so sorry!" Nihanin fistpumps as a final 'yeah, let's do this hardcore' motion and turns back, muttering to himself. Mostly about food, and his coat. Varal nods slowly. "You get me and Aelavel to him, and I will do what I can." "I dunna claim t' b' be'er'n ana 'un." Griedan murmurs, though to whom... who can tell? The tale Taran tells doesn't seem to surprise the man, however. "Ifn I could e'en touch meh power, I migh' b' able t' 'elp too, stop 'im from changin'. But... I couldna e'en d'spel those runes." "Reserves're important, sir." Lucius says as the troops quiet down once more. He notices the civilian and gives in a wink and a bit of a wave himself. "If'n the acarits are broken, we can exploit that cause we'll be fresher than those soldiers at the wall. Cut 'em down as they run. Or if there's a breakthrough in our lines..." He trails off. "FORM UP!" Lucius yells. One of the older archers, carrying a small horn, blows three short notes and the Torchbearers begin got get into the formation of spearmen - pikemen – archers. "T-Taran!" Meian calls as she hastens up breathlessly, pausing only to string her bow. "W-where should I be? I'm s-sorry, I t-tried to fly up to the t-top of the Spire and I b-blocked before I c-could call the s-storm... I can t-try again from here but o-only from up t-there can I call it j-just at the walls...!" Taran smiles. "He will probably come to you. Just...be ready." He turns to Meian. "Straight north, wall above the pathway. You'll be with Sandrim and Kallyn and I." He pauses as a runner comes pelting up to hand him a note; reading it, he grimaces. "Right," he says to the runner. "His men can stay here. He can come redeem himself by fighting where I can *see* him. Northern wall." As the Torchbearers form up into a semi-circle near the Spire entrance, the archers place quivers on the ground so they can easily knock arrows and loose them when the time is necessary. Pikes and spears remain raised, but shields are ready and the men vigilant. Lucius himself is looking straight ahead. If need be, the men are ready to part to the side to allow people in and out. For now, they clasp their weapons in wait. Griedan pushes away from the wall of the spire and takes up position to the edge of the semicircle of soldiers. He does not carry a shield, but rather a two-handed weapon. He hefts the massive argentite weapon and stands at the ready. Varal nods to Taran. "So be it. When he comes here, I will be ready. But I will keep Aelavel in reserve, then, for him." He crouches, scratching the head of his wolf. "Hear that, you get to sit most of this out. Some people get all the luck, don't they?" "A-all right, Taran." Meian nods crisply and then darts off to the north, as quickly as she'd came. "Good luck, Meian!" Lucius calls. "You too, L-lucius!" can be heard. Taran smiles. "Oh...and - my apologies for this - but Thayndor's Deepers will be here. Mostly because the city is infuriated with the lot of them. So please, do not feel obligated to protect them. They will be busy proving to the people that they did *not* in fact intend for this city to be destroyed. I'll do you the favor of keeping Thayndor out of your way, in exchange." He heads north. "Time for me to take up my position. Light be with you." "Light Bless us all," Varal replies. "Good luck. And feel free to let a couple head our way, Archon. We have other issues to discuss once this is all over." You paged Taran with 'Got lagged: "Light Bless us all," Varal replies. "Good luck. And feel free to let a couple head our way, Archon. We have other issues to discuss once this is all over."' A booming warble like a two ton sparrow clearing its throat booms across the Refuge, and then a voice, the same one heard eighteen days ago, echoes through, shaking windowpanes with its smooth tenor. "Greetings, Crown's Refuge. Seventeen days have passed, and still, I have seen no Hand. I even gave you an extra day, lest you forgot me so soon. As I am merciful and wish only for peace, I will extend one more olive branch to you: surrender the Hand now, and I may even spare your Archmage. You have five minutes to comply, otherwise I will assume your consent towards a change in leadership and military of your fair city. I do hope you make the right choice. Peace be with you." The warbling sound is heard once more, then silence. "The entire city is infuriated with them. Yes." Lucius says in a low voice mainly to himself, but smiles when he knows the Deepers will be with the Torchbearers. "Good. Good men, them. Fight with the irregulars." As Taran goes away, he decides not to say anything. He does tighten his chinstrap. "Fall to knees, Torches!" The men do so, resting for now, but restless when the voice comes. There is some low murmuring. "SHUT YOUR HOLES, YOU PUTRID WHORESONS, OR IT'S LATRINE DUTY FOR THE LOT OF YA!" "Th' Deepers?" Griedan asks and looks at Varal. "Does 'e mean what that we're s'posed t' fight them too?" he inquires. "An' why would they think that Lord Za'ir wan's th' citeh d'stroyed. Not what that I give a red rat's arse 'bout th' Za'irs." "Oy, you all hear that?! The Shadow wants us to surrender," Varal notes loudly, grinning broadly. He looks towards Lucius and Griedan. "Deepers are good soldiers, lots of spirit. Not a bad thing to have them around." The Mikin waves his sword lazily about, then takes a deep breath. "A moment of silence, men. Let us pray." Lucius Nepos closes his eyes and does that. Being on one knee, this isn't hard. He is speaking quietly, mostly, but then says in a louder voice, "I vow my enemies' souls to the Light in offering." Once he's done, he opens his eyes. Griedan goes to a knee and bows his head he speak loudly, like leading the others in prayer. "Light guide meh weapon an' b' meh armor in this day o' need an' th' bat'le 'gainst th' Shaduh. 'Elp me t' b' strong in th' face o' meh foes an' t' r'turn 'ale t' those what that I love. An' ifn this is t' b' meh las' day on th' world, then may meh death serve th' Light." Varal silently mutters a prayer of his own after falling to a knee. Once he finishes, he rises and kisses the flat of his blade. He gives Griedan and Lucius a nod, then stretches out his back. "What do you think, Fist Nepos? Should we let Eliare know we are here?" "I think we should. Dunno how y'd do that, though, sir." Lucius answers, looking up at Varal. He and the other regulars remain on one armoured knee. "So be it," comes the voice, somewhat quieter. "Be at peace with the fate you have chosen for yourselves." "Light b' Merc'ful on yeh, Eliare," Griedan mumbles. "B'cause ifn w' meet up, I willna b'." "Alright, then. The gauntlet is thrown. Now we wait from the Blood Guard to crumble under a tide of acarits," the Mikin states. "Ominous name, Blood Guard. Where'd they think of it? "Who knows. They're valorous warriors, m'lord. Songbird thinks himself a General, despite all, and their Blade Master Torus Kahar is as proud as Songbird." Lucius answers, voice even. He watches from afar the northern path, though it is somewhat shrouded. "Rest well, Torches. When they come, when they come, we will stab with our swords, thrust with our pikes into their Shadow-borne flesh. Stay to the Standard and keep your posts until the horns blow, and you will find glory! If one is wounded, pull him back into the spire. Today, we show the Wildlanders how /Imperials/ fight!" Griedan stands back up to his full height and shakes his head. "Didna come 'ere fer gloreh and dunna need ana o' it. Le's see 'ow th' shaduh likes us." "They want the Hand and not the city," Varal notes mildly. "Thus, they will be heading here as fast as they can. I got a feeling we won't be lonely for too much longer. The question is how many they can kill before they get here." Lucius Nepos shoots Griedan a look like he shouldn't be talking, though he doesn't say anything. He just watches. Griedan catches the look from Lucius and shrugs his shoulders. He stands ready and looks around. "Wunner wha's goin' on." he muses. Varal frowns a moment, looking at Griedan and Lucius. "Perhaps we should put someone on running duty. I'm not convinced that the Archon knows what he is doing. This is not how I would have approached this fight." "Stonehammer, m'lord, is as good a runner as any. Or you, if y'like. You're as fast as anything." Lucius suggests, hand gripping his spear tightly. His armoured chest rises and falls with each breath, while steam forms out of his nose and mouth as he exhales. Griedan doesn't say anything especially, but rather looks to Varal expectantly, waiting for the man's decision. "I need to stay here for Eliare. Aelavel cannot stray far from my side," Varal notes. "Griedan, if you want to go find out what is happening, be my guest. Having a line of communication - knowing what might be coming our way - would be useful." "Go then, Master Stonehammer, and Light be with you in this." Lucius rises himself and offers Griedan a salute. "Your valour will be well used." Griedan nods sharply, bows to Varal and takes off at a sprint towards the north, mostly unimpeded even by that banded mail. Blue balls of fire streak up into the night air and out of sight, and crackling lightning coming from the north lights up the sky. Varal looks up at the fire and lightning, frowning. "I am almost glad we are not there," he mutters. "Aye, sir, but we all wish that they'd come here already. Get it over with." Says Lucius very quietly to Varal, so only he can hear. "The men're skittish, as they do get before battle. Their discipline and good spirits are keepin' 'em here." "Oh. I totally agree. I will be upset if we came all the way over here for nothing," Varal replies. "And the stick that it will put in Taran's ass just will be unbearable, if they do not need the help." "Better we keep the moral high ground over the prat that rules this place." Lucius says, moving to rejoin the line. "Nothing yet. Dust, and dust." He says to the troops in his gruff command voice, "Ready boys! Stay ready!" Varal stands stoicly, silent. His companion rises to her paws and takes a couple of steps forward, placing herself between Varal and the direction of combat. His position on a knee doesn't permit him to pace, but staying completely or near completely still while the battle rages on somewhere else is not an easy thing to do. Lucius steels it and does so anyways, fingers curling around the perfectly crafted leather strap of his shield. Varal raises his sword again, resting it back on his shoulder. He spits to the side, and then grunts. Lucius Nepos pulls out a sack of small seeds. Nothing to fill one's stomach, but something to munch on nonetheless. He takes some for himself and hands the rest out into the group of soldiers. They are passed around. Something to do. "Perhaps, Lucius, this Blood Guard is not completely incompetent," Varal muses wryly. Lucius Nepos laughs. "Never said they were. They just don't do this for a living." He grins. Lucius Nepos is amongst the first rank - these are the five spearmen, if one includes him. Behind are the pikemen, and behind them the archers, the standard bearer and apothecary. They are all taking a knee, weapons ready but resting, and appear to be waiting rather impatiently. Such is the stress of battle. Varal shrugs. "I really hope the Deepers are not having more fun than we are. That would disappoint me greatly." Coming in from the east at a slow but purposeful pace is Bloodstone, his bow long ago already having been knocked and ready to go. He can smell it in the air, and feel it under the ground that he steps across. He slows his pace even more as he begins to approach the Torchbearers. "Sir!" One of the mail clad spearmen says, pointing with his short throwing spear at the approaching figure. Lucius rises from his knee, but the other soldiers do not yet. "Hail! Who goes there?" He doesn't answer Varal, though, simply nods. With a wave of the hand, the standard bearer lowers and raises the standard three times. Three short blows from the horn the apothecary holds follows, and the men get to their feet deliberately. Lucius is at the far right of the formation which faces the north, meaning he is closest in the semi-circular formation to Bloodstone. He raises his spear in challenge. Varal removes his sword from his shoulder, taking the hilt in both hands. He points it at the ground, so as not to seem to threatening. Spotting Bloodstone, he relaxes. "He's a wildlander," the noble notes simply. Somber as always, the eternally hooded Bloodstone lowers his knocked bow when attention seemed is being drawn on him. One figure catches his dark invisible gaze, and that happens to be Lucius. "Sir Lucius." he says, still not having quite the right idea of Fastheldian knighthood. "I have come to offer my aid. Do you need another good sword and bow?" he asks simply Lucius Nepos grins broadly at Bloodstone, and nods vigorously. "With which do you fight better, Bloodstone?" He asks the man. The soldiers seem very happy to have another one fighting with them. Varal grins. "More the merrier," he states simply. He slowly begins stretching, trying to stay limber. "Welcome to the Torchbearers, Wildlander." "I am decently versed in both, Sir Lucius. I admit my abilities lay better in bow work, but I know when to switch." Bloodstone explains, taking a moment to check the tightness on his bowstring while speak, the rings on his ringmail jingling sligthly. A hooded gaze at Varal then, accompanied by a nod. "Just doing my part. Any word from the other parts of the Refuge?" "Not a Knight, no need to sir me, Bloodstone." Lucius does note, though it sounds like a note indeed and not an admonishment with any severity. "Then you will fight with the bowmen." He declares. "You must take orders from us, however, and follow the standard. That is the caveat, and it is vitally important to do so in battle." Varal nods, backing up Lucius statement. "At least until this battle is done, Bloodstone. But we seem to be the Archmage's last line of defence here." Bloodstone nods, starting to move aside to stand with aforementioned bowmen. "I will take orders from you Lucius, but I admit I am...not well versed in military orders and procedures." he says, giving a polite nod to the bowmen he's joined up with. "Just give me a direction to shoot in and I will make sure my arrow makes it there." he states. "Last line...hmm, so there has been no word from anyone else I take it." Lucius Nepos shakes his head at Bloodstone. "We sent a runner to oversee the battle and return when the enemy is coming." "All we can say is that the battle is joined. Did you see the fireworks?" Varal replies. "Mm." Lucius says quietly, watching the north. There is a formation of Torchbearers, armed and ready to fight by the entrance of the Spire. Their standard flies high behind them. Lucius Nepos is amongst the first rank - these are the five spearmen, if one includes him. Behind are the pikemen, and behind them the archers, the standard bearer and apothecary. They are all taking a knee, weapons ready but resting, and appear to be waiting rather impatiently. Bloodstone, Varal and Varal's spirit wolf are all nearby. Bloodstone shakes his head. "No, I have not. I was far too busy preparing myself for this. I was hoping to meet up with Blackfox or Sandrim, but I ran into you and your men first." he replies, now moving a hand to his hip to loosen the strap that holds his scimitar. "They are to the north." Lucius says to Bloodstone, quite simply. He is holding his spear by its throwing strap, and his shield is for once not covered by leather. The seraphite shield glows dull blue, shaped as a dragon. Mareten shakes slightly as he looks around. "Ayup" The young smith murmurs to himself as he taps the hilt of his saber against his kite shield checking its straps. Varal smirks. "Chances are you are a little too late to join up with Blackfox and Sandrim," the Mikin notes dryly. "But, if I had to guess, we are likely to see action here. The acarits are not trying to kill everything, but rather get the hand. We are an obstacle to the hand. Not the smartest way to win a battle, but we do not know what will happen to this Eliare if he obtains the Hand." Mareten is still shaking. The young smith closes his eyes and murmurs something to himself. "They must be coming soon. Ready, boys." Lucius says again to steady the troops. (At this point Lucius's player had to leave, so he was just fighting amongst the soldiers.) Varal grunts, reaching down to scratch the head of his wolf. He tousles the beasts fur, something only he can do, as he waits. Mareten looks over at Lucius and nods slightly to himself. The young smith hunches his shoulders and tighens his grip on his saber. Amidst the sound of fighting, dying and explosions, the sound of skittering can be heard from the north-northeast, getting louder and louder. Mareten glances up and shakes. "Bollocks." He murmurs to himself. The young smith tries to curl into himself and stay in postition, an odd thing to witness. "OY! Men, prepare. Bowmen, draw! Spearmen, ready spears," Varal orders, moving in a north-northeasternly direction. He points to the crowd of men, and his wolf moves to flank them all. "Time to earn our pay." Taran makes his way in from the north, uninjured but - as usual of late - leaning on his staff. His warning comes in the form of orders to the Blood Guard of the Spire, carried on a voice trained in operatic clarity: "Guard to stand ready! Flanking units approaching from the northern wall! Hold the Spire!" Bloodstone is perfectly still standing admist the rest of the bowmen. At Varal's command however, the hooded Hunter's knocked bow is drawn back, and into a ready position towards the northeast. He has nothing to say, as he knows full well whats coming. Griedan comes charging down the street towards the standard. He immediately picks Varal out of the group. "Meh Lord, th' lines are breached, but mere er less 'old." He shouts and takes up position at the flanks of the spearmen. Mareten shudders slightly and peers over at the people speaking. "Ayup.." He murmurs softly to himself. "Are they attempting to hold the wall, or do they just want the Archmage?!" Varal questions, shouting, preparing his sword in a low guard. The Mikin frowns, and behind him the Torchbearers stand ready. BOOOOM-CRACKA-BOOOM! Pause. BA-BOOM! Two explosions on the houses at the southern edge of the Corona send dust and debris flying in the air, then there's a long pause, and a third explosion can be heard to the west, much less powerful. The first two houses slowly begin to catch on fire as acarits begin to filter in from several alleys to the north, northeast and east. Taran heads toward the Spire, scowling at the explosions. "No, they're coming through," he says to Varal. "As we thought. The center line was breached; the Spire must hold." There’s a small thankful smirk from the depth of Bloodstone's hood seeing survivors, but he still holds his ground with his bow drawn, just waiting for the command to release. Theres a tilt of the head at the explosions, but the man strives to stay focused, even when the sight of the acarits start to make his hand twitch, old memories beginning to resurface. "BOWS! NORTH! FIRE!" Varal shouts, pointing in that direction. "SPEARS! EAST! LOOSE!" There's a pause as he draws in another breath. "KEEP THE ARROWS COMING! SPEARMEN, TOSS YOUR THREE AND DRAW SWORDS!" Mareten's sword is already out by now. The young smith hangs out towards the rear of the formation. His mouth hangs open at the explosions before he lifts his kite shield a little higher. Griedan is a bit shaken by the explosions, but it does not break him. Instead, he merely grips his mace tighter and makes ready, waiting for the word from Varal. Bloodstone doesn't need to hear anything else, glad to let that arrow go, more than hoping it puts down whatever it strikes. A handful of the acarits are hit by the arrows, and two of the spears hit home as the disparate group drives into the Corona, felling the tiny beasts. They return fire with eldritch powers, fire, lightning and magic missiles lancing towards the gathered group. A bolt of lightning flashes at Varal, but it disappears in a wash of gold as it hits the Mikin. He growls before yelling, "BOWS! FIRE! SPEARS! LOOOOSE!" More arrows lash out, and the spearmen throw their second of three spears. The pikemen bang their pikes agains the ground, shouting at the acarits, waiting for the enemy to get close enough to validate lowering their weapons. "Damned creatures." Bloodstone mutters under his breathe, quickly picking out another arrow. Quickly knocking it, he releases with the rest of the flurry of raining shafts, hoping to pour death down upon the acarit. Mareten blinks his eyes and lifts his saber up. He opens his mouth to call something out but gets slammed back by a volley of purple orbs slamming into his chest plate. The young smith blinks yet again and starts to slump. Eugene clenches his teeth as he spots Mareten getting hit. Being near him in the back of the formation, the healer moves towards him and observes him. "You alright?!" He glances towards the Acarits, then back towards the other man. Griedan raises a hand and tries to focus the Light enough to deflect or get rid of the orbs, but the power is not forthcoming. He watches helpless as the orbs strike the man and he slumps but there's no time for that now with the Acarits drawing closer Mareten wheezes and nods his head. "A..y..up." He coughs out as he tries to straighten up once again. The young smith holds his sabre unsteadily as he waits near the rear. "Might want to..Ugh!" Gene is cut off as some missiles slam into his side, and lets out a gasp, one arm clutching his rib and glaring towards the front line again, breath wheezing out in high pitched gasps. His attack dog growls at his side, ears perked, letting out a few loud barks. A pair of fireballs roll over Varal's head, the Mikin easily ducking under it. Two of the spearmen are caught on the fringe of the fireballs, one dying instantly, while the other runs screaming, trying to remove burning hot chainmail. Eventually, he collapses as shock overtakes his system. Varal spits to the side, growling. "BOWMEN! KEEP FIRING! SPEARS, LAST SPEAR AND DRAW!" Varal shouts, as he rises to his full height, sword back in a low guard. "PIKES DOWN!" Wik (w) pages: At least three of the arrows strike home into the acarits as they fall to the wayside, only to be overtaken by three of their brethren. The acarits move just into melee range, loosing several bursts of magical energy before they move to engage. Bloodstone just keep letting go of arrows as fast as he can retrieve one, draw back and unleash it. Though, taking note of how close the acarits are getting, that sword is getting mighty tempting to take up. Griedan watches the magic missiles come towards him, but somehow they simply do not affect him. The big man snarls and swings his massive argentite weapon in a sweeping underhand movement at the nearest acarit within range, much like one swings a golf club. The acarits strike at the Torchbearers and Varal, and the Mikin goes unscathed. His men, however, are not so lucky. A spearman, pikeman, and two archers perish. Daggers drawn, the Torchbearers hold their ground, trying to make their lives count against the acarits. In the meantime, Varal launches himself in the midst of the acarits, whirling with his sword and attempting to kill as many of them as possible - he howls something unintelligible as he strikes. Bloodstone isn't nearly as brave as Varal, managing to dodge the first strike by the acarits. But he takes a few step backwards, trying to ignore the shakiness in his sword arm. The memories of being dragged and covered by more acarits than he'd ever care to remember bubbles to surface. The hooded Hunter doesn't run, no, attempting to swing at the nearest spider creature that comes his way, but he doesn't look to jump headlong into battle. Step by back stepping step, he nears the Spire. Mareten stumbles back as the acarits near narrowly dodging and whatnot. The young smith grits his teeth and hunches his shoulders. "Ayup." Comes his low hiss as he starts to clumsily hack back. Eugene raises his shield up skilfully to take the blunt of the spider's attack, sword swiping horizontally in return. "Attack!" That attack dog, at his side, lunges for the Acarite attacking Mareten. Griedan deflects the attack from the acarit that lunges at him with his weapon's handle and as it falls back to the ground, he simply tries to smash the beastly with the head of his warmace, screaming now in rage. + In mid-air, a six-spoked glowing circle appears, the spokes rotating silently until it appears as a flickering gate. Eliare steps through with a look of intense concentration; once past, the gate vanishes behind him. Five acarits fall to the soldier's efforts as wave upon wave continue to crash on. One of the acarits near the back raises up on its back legs, and all of a sudden, the front lines are covered in a large sphere of impenetrable darkness. As if planned, another raises on its back legs, and suddenly, a violet spoked wheel appears, and a man in a moss-colored robe steps through. Griedan sees the darkness swelling from the acarit as it rises up and blinks in surprise for just an instant before calling upon the light to assist him, a prayer into the night... and it is answered. The darkness falls away, driven away by the Light channeled through his being. "OY ELIARE! BROUGHT YOU A PRESENT!" Varal bellows, charging towards the man, trying to clear a path through the acarits with his sword. His remaining men try to fight the acarits. But, charging from the spire is Eliare's present - a spirit wolf, fangs attempting to latch onto his throat. Bloodstone blinks back the presence of the Light, doing his best to hold his sword steady. He watches Varal and his spirit wolf make their charge. Deciding to do his back make some kind of contrbution, he continues to battle against the acarits, though his unease seeing the creatures clearly has not subsided. Mareten blinks in suprise at the man but can't spend too much time worrying about it as he keep trying not to die too quickly. Hack hack hack. Maybe he'll make some headway. Eugene turns and raises his sword once more, hacking away at the Acarite with a slight growl. His attack let out the same growl, only more feral and loud, before lunging for another attack. Otto Stonefish and another scruffy looking individual who bothers to wear footwear come out of the chaos of battle and make their merry way north. It's hard to tell which the sidekick is and which the leader is since they both fit into the minion role pretty well, trying to skirt the worst of the chaos. The only thing that really spoils the image is the big shiny axe strapped to the barefoot man's pack. He's got a simpler and handier steel weapon in his left hand an even simpler round shield strapped to his arm, though. Eliare seems to be expecting the Light-brought dog as it leaps towards him, and he moves to turn away, but not quite fast enough. It latches onto his shoulder, drawing blood and whipping him around from the sheer force of impact. Somewhere in the midst of the turn, however, the magus begins to dissolve into a pool of red, sliding through the Fenrir's teeth and to a puddle on the ground. The acarits charge on through the descending and subsequent ascending darkness, two of their number falling to the soldiers as they leap once more, whipped into even greater fervour by the presence of their master. "Get a bucket! Soak it in cloth! Keep this goddamn blood from going ANYWHERE!" the Mikin bellows, stomping around near where Eliare transformed, sword whipping at a nearby acarit, always a step ahead of the shadow spiders. Aelavel easily dodges another one, staying close to the plasmic form by attempting to shred a nearby acarit with her teeth. All the while, the remaining Torchbearers valiantly attempt to kill the last of the acarits and keep safe the Spire. "GET THE BLOOD INTO LIGHT'S REACH!" Griedan channels the Light successfully with another prayer, but it's just not enough this time, as Eliare melts away into a puddle. "Some'un get a jar!" he shouts, dodging an acarit and striking down at the creature, flailing his warmace about at whichever one dares to get close. Mareten keeps on doing his thing. Hacking away and trying not to die. He isn't trying so much to kill the enemy as he is trying to make it hard for them to kill him. Bloodstone takes a few more steps back toward the Spire while still fighting off any acarit that comes near him. But he loses his footing in his back stepping, and stumbles, falling backward onto the ground. Sword still in hand pretty much now on eye level with the spider creatures, he scrambles and scrapes to himself back up to his feet. Otto and ye olde other Deeper seem to be for the moment torn, but as the acarit blood starts to fly, they exchange looks and move to join the chaos of the battle. Otto switches his big gothic axe out in favor of a lighter iron one, closing in slowly with his partner. Eugene grunts as a strike brushes into his shoulder, piercing armor. Stepping back to gain space, he then sends his sword out for another strike. His dog, missing the lunge, is swiped aside with a whelp, and squeals and growls as it's overrun by Acarits, growing quiet within moments. Three more of the horde down as they continue to press the defenders closer to the Spire. Near Varal's feet, the bloody form begins to rise and slowly turns back into a man, looking positively *annoyed*. He shakes his head, and speaks a single, deep, nigh-unpronounceable word, which echoes around him. Two more Torchbearers fall, leaving their depleted numbers to three archers, three pikemen, and one surviving spearmen desperately stabbing here and there with his shortsword. Aelavel is pounced upon by several acarits, a silent howl of torment rips across her features before she fails. But Varal is mostly oblivious to all of this - the reformation of Eliare is his only concern - and so he strikes. A howl of rage, counterpoint to Aelavel's torment, rips from Griedan's throat as he mounts that strength of his to free himself from that sticky goop, enough that he can stand up. With a violent yank, he pulls his warmace free and turns a hateful look up Eliare. Bloodstone clambers back up onto his feet, just in time to make a haphazard rising upward slash at a random acarit that manages to scuttle over his way. Not much else he can do but help defend the Spire at all costs. Mareten scurries along barely managing to get his sheild up in time to keep from getting hit. The young smith growls and swings his blade with skill for a change. "Ain’t wanna dies... no dies..." He says to himself. Eugene grits teeth together as another attack is parried. "How you holding up, Mareten?" He yells as he slashes again at his foe. Otto Stonefish lobs the bearded axe at a cluster of the spider things while his erstwhile buddy whacks around with a club to try to keep the immediate area clear. Three more acarits fall as they continue to drive towards the Spire, pushing from all sides and gaining a little ground. Varal's swing actually severs the Magi's index and middle fingers completely off, blood flowing freely. Eliare cries out, pressing the hand against his robe as he moves to squat, retrieving said fingers from the ground. And then it's up he goes, springing preternaturally fast and high into the air towards the second story window of the Spire. The ground before the Spire is littered with bodies, dead acarits, arrows, and spears. The last few standing members of the Torchbearers, six men in chain wielding shortswords or daggers, fight alongside Mareten, Bloodstone, and Eugene in a failing effort to keep over a hundred acarits from entering into the spire. Otto Stonefish and a club-wielding deeper are approaching, a last minute bolster to the overwhelmed soldiers. Close to that knot, but surrounded by acarits stands Varal Mikin, howling as Eliare has just lept from his reach towards the second story of the spire. The Mikin swings his sword and dodges blows as best he can, fury at the escaped prey visible on his face. Nearby Varal is Griedan Stonehammer, a massive argentite warmace in hand and also covered in something sticky akin to a spider's web. Although she has hid within the spire for these long hours, tending the wounded, a sweat and soot-stained Tyder appears at the threshold to the building with a steal quarterstaff clutched in her hands. She does not dive into the foray, per se, but works in conjunction with Taran to help drag the wounded out of danger to be cared for, and so she remains back. She is wary and at the ready, though, gaze darting over the battleground in search of fallen men, and the smith jumps back reflexively as Eliare practically flings himself at the Spire. Two more Torchbearers fall, and where once stood fifteen now only stand four. Those final four do not have any choice but fight or die, so they continue to fight. In the meantime, Varal begins to fight his way back towards the Spire, eyes glancing up towards Eliare every so often. "COWARD!" he nearly screams, throat hoarse. One of the acarits somehow... it finds a chink in Griedan's armor and makes use of it, biting through the leather and into his side. He hisses and uses an elbow to knock the critter off of him and proceeds to try smashing it with his warhammer. "Meh Lord, go up th' spire an' pr'tect th' archmage. I'll d' meh bes' t' 'old 'ere." Bloodstone spins neatly out of the way of an attacking acarit, looking to have found something that may resemble a second wind is battle that doesn't seem to look like to have any end. Hood knocked off long ago he makes another swing that may be more half-hearted as Varal's yelling at Elaire made him glance upward. Close to the Spire's enterance as he is, he takes another step backward toward the door, perhaps to give chase. Mareten isn't doing anything too interesting. The young smith is back tracking towards the spire and slashing with his saber trying not to slip or get slashed as he tries to move back. "Feeling just a bit....Just a bit..." Gene speaks loudly, shaking his head, "Damned creatures must have a...Poison." The healer smashes the enemy attack aside with a brilliant parry. He tries to cut his way towards Marten, hopefully back to back with the other torchbearer, also backtracking similarly. "S...Stick close, huh?" The sound of Otto's axe skittering across the obsidian probably goes unnoticed. He sure isn't looking, anyway, wrestling the next largest axe of his collection out and holding an acarit at bay with his shield. His buddy plays whack-a-mole with the acarits while fending an attack off with some inventive club work. Both are concerned with more immediate problems than leaping half statues, fighting back to back for the time being - although, Otto is doing more weapon wrestling and defending than attacking. Kallyn dashes into the Corona from the north, iron shortsword in hand and covered in the innards of acarits. The young mage girl is sweaty, but unscathed, void of any acarit spit, and entirely ready to continue fighting. Which is exactly what she does when she comes upon the scene! The redhead's eyes narrow as chaotic blue-white lightning springs to her command, and she immediately directs it at the nearest acarits as she charges into the fray! Graham stumbles in from the north, headed down the central path towards the spire. He's trying desperately to keep up with everyone, including the 20 Bloodguard rushing to help, but keeps falling behind. The miner has a dazed expression and holds his dagger in a loose grip. Pieces of dried green goo stick to his right arm and both legs. Upon coming upon the scene, Sandrim surveys it quickly and... drops his backpack before nocking an arrow to his bow, this one with a letter and glowing red rune attached. "This may sound a bit crazy," he says, "but can someone get my backpack in among those spiders?" The arrow is shot at Eliare. For her part, Meian- also part of that group that rushes in from the north- is fairly covered in acarit spit, her kukri flashing in her hand. Before she charges into the fray, she halts and begins to chop it off, trying to remove enough that her mobility isn't impeded anymore by the sticky gobs. Blackfox comes riding in on Velvel's back, keeping low in case her passenger needs to fire off a shot. As they approach the spire, she slips off the wolf even before she comes to a halt, a soft word sending her off to a safe distance. A quick reconnoiter of scene and she spots the familiar figure of Eliare as he leaps, gritting her teeth as she raises her arbalest and fires, Serena following her lead. Thayndor Zahir rounds the corner only to be confronted by ... the scene before the Spire. He looks unhurt, if a bit smoke-smudged, and for some reason bald. The crowd of Acarits and the leaping man draw him up short, his hand perched uncertainly on his sword. His mouth opens, then shuts. "I've had quite enough of this," He says at last, as the others loose their arrows. He raises his hand, fingers splayed, towards the sky. He waits for the arrows to reach their marks before he opens his mouth again, as if to speak -- but though his lips move, no words leave his lips that mortals can hear. The trailing glowy form of the Mikin limps after the others. A mace still held tightly in her hands and green goo obscures there golden quill. She looks rough, but golden wings light from her shoulders and cradle against her form as she runs towards the spire. The mace is levied to the first acarit she comes across. The spry necromancer lands on the sill of the Spire, lost in concentration for a moment. "She isn't here! Fall back!" he screams in rage, his first words of the engagement, turning about suddenly as if knowing he's being attacked, one of the arrows nonetheless flying through his bloodied robes and into his calf. He grunts once more and reaches out with his good hand, still holding two severed fingers. He uses his index finger to trace in the air, and a glowing purple wheel appears. He looks down to the assembled group. "Peace upon you, peace within you," he snarls, positively limping through the gate. The acarits dutifully begin pulling back, swarming towards the east. Varal snarls as Eliare escapes. Throwing aside his sword, he leaps at the nearest acarit and attempts to channel his fury by beating it to death. With his fists. The remaining Torchbearers, on the other hand, all four of them, seem content to watch the acarits go. Gambit failed, Thayndor Zahir lowers his hand, and the breeze that was building dissipates -- perhaps letting the archers take parting shots ... Thayndor's fury is contained. The Zahir stands, the last gusts of wind whipping his cloak at his bootheels, with hands at his sides. Except for his cloak, the Lord of Darkwater is motionless as he watches the necromancer that was doubtless Eliare disappear into a dimensional gateway. "We have our lives," he says. "You have your town." He turns, head hanging, as the acarits skitter away. "Others are dead. Let us bury them." Otto Stonefish and his Deeper buddy leave the acarits alone, moving towards their noble backer. Griedan tries to stop the portal from opening, but it seems that the Light has chosen this time to forsake him and he in unable to manifest even a glimmer. Howling in frustration as Eliare gets away, he instead turns his frustration, like Varal, on any acarit a little too slow to get away, but he keeps his weapon, argentitne moving in a blur. Bloodstone looks up at the disappearing Elaire through clumped strands of hair thats caked with a mixture of blood and acarit goo, scowling darly. Seeing the creatures move to leave however, does make the make the man breathe a sigh of slight relife, even if its a tad premature. He swings his scimitar once or twice, flinging off excess acarit blood and entrails before tucking it back into its sheathe to be cleaned later. He begins to walk away at that, a hand reaching to pull his hood back down over his head. Off to dig a few graves it would seem. The wasteful displays of energy and rage go unnoticed on the wolf rider who steps over numerous bodies of the fallen. Kallyn seems just as pissed off as Varal, dropping her own sword as lightning comes to both hands. It streams up her arms, across her torso, and she screams in rage as she directs it at the departing Eliare, whether she can actually hit him with it or not, "COME BACK AND FIGHT LIKE A MAN YOU CRAVEN, GUTLESS BASTARD!" Mareten slumps and shakes his head. "Not dies. Ayup..." He murmurs to himself in relief. The young smith is content enough with that, he'll let the others scream and rage. For his part, Graham just gapes at the disappearing man with wide eyes. He stumbles over to a tree and sits down beneath it, practically falling really. The miner smiles up and the sky cheering, "We've won! The Refuge is saved!" Sandrim looks around slowly, before letting out a breath, and tucking the quiver away. "They're retreating," he murmurs. "Let's see to the wounded." As he says this, his eyes trail over to Graham, and he grins faintly. "Hey, Graham, let's see about having someone look after you, alright? I'll put you up until you're doing better." Meian glances one way, up at the fleeing Eliare. Glances another way, at the fleeing acarits. A truly evil smile curls her thin lips, and she holds her kukri aloft for a moment. Just a flash of concentration, a liquid melting of her very skeleton, the Shadow reshaping the little mage into a massive violet-furred wolf... And with a joyful bark? She's chasing Acarits away like a giant puppy, biting and snapping at any she can catch. Celeste growls as the necromancer seems to retreat. "Coward," she snarls and turns to slam the mace into a passing acarit. Her eyes seems almost to flash with an iridescent hue, perhaps just a play of the light or armor. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Crunch. Varal pounds away at the beleaguered acarit for a moment, his first blow stunning it enough that it can do little more than suffer the barrage. Eventually, it is more of a pile of ichor, flesh, and contusions than anything else. By that point, Varal rises to his feet, kicks the corpse, and goes to recover his sword. Sliding the weapon in his baldric, he scans his remaining men in a melancholy gaze. "Where were the Blood Guard?" he says softly as he sees all the corpses. He begins walking towards the Spire. "He just fled. We fought for nothing. We stood our ground for nothing," he growls. As the acarit gives easily under the blow. It's clear all her anger is focused in that one shot. The Mikin's knees seem to slowly wobble. Eyes once more unfocusing, and she stumbles towards the spire. Nomnomnom. The wolf catches an acarit in its massive jaws, and goes so far as to *eat* it- mostly, at least, a couple poor forgotten legs wedged in her fangs. This done, the giant violet beast- as tall as a horse- sits back on her haunches and howls at the moon. The deep sound is layered with the faint echo of a high woman's voice, a sound of both lamentation and Pyrrhic triumph. Griedan lifts the head of his mace from the flagstones and it is covered in acarit gore. The big man stumbles a few steps and then the weapon falls from his grasp loudly. His legs, unable to hold him, buckle under the poison raging through his system, leaving him on one knee amongst the dead, both enemy and those fallen comrades he's trained with, drank with, laughed with, come to be friends with and gotten to know intimately. Mareten hisses and wheezes as the plate clunks down next to his sitting form. The young smith fingers the dents for a moment then tears start to roll down his cheeks. The young smith hunches his shoulders and closes his eyes to the bodies all around him and shies away from the direction of the purple wolf. The adrenaline that has pumping through Kallyn's veins fades, the redhead turning a bit pale and falling to her hands and knees, coughing as her exhaustion catches up to her all at once. She takes a few deep breaths and loosens her argentite banded-mail, pulling off the cuirass and setting it aside on the ground. "The wounded..." she wheezes, "Something's wrong with Graham... And the others, who were bitten..." Graham nods to Sandrim and shakily stands. "Alright but we should go see Sandrim first," he states, looking around. "There's blood on my armor and I think something bit me," the miner says, "he should take a look at it." The bearded man sets off at a stumbling walk towards the central spire once more. ---- ''Return to Season 7 (2008) Category:Logs